Mr. Bill Collector: Chapter 1 Excerpt

You Know You Done Fucked Up, Don't You?

July 8, 1997 12:03 am

His heart, which once pumped at a feverish and manic speed, had suddenly began to calm to a normal pace. His forehead, once slick and drenched with the perspiration that leaked down into his eyes, began to dry. Come to think of it, he was a lot more relaxed now. Finally his mind could take a moment at ease. Perhaps it was the breeze from the ceiling fan he’d just switched on that brought forth this sudden comfort. The cool air was rather refreshing, serving its purpose well.

They called him Flash, and the name fit him perfectly. If anyone lived in the fast lane it was the man given the title Eli Jamison at birth. An arrogant son of gun with a cunning way of the street, he defined “hustler” in all aspects of the term. Since the age of eighteen he couldn’t recall a moment that nearly resembled that of brokeness. He wouldn’t allow it. Sure, Flash still kicked it in the hood, but he stayed fly long before the rappers made a song about it. To make sure he never bottomed out to “po-man” status, he was constantly out on the grind, participating in whatever carefree scandal the situation called for —- all for the lust of the money.

The Native of Detroit, Michigan was born on October 22, 1969 into a life of strife and poverty. Loathing damn near every minute of it, Flash vowed to never deal with the financial burdens he watched his family endure. The man carried no memory of his mother who died as a result of a heroin overdose. And his cowardly father … well that was someone he could never speak on because it was someone he never met. Therefore, he could never love, respect, or even hate the man. Bless the hearts of his grandparents, whom showered him with all of their love, doing their best to raise a young boy destined for a life of dealing, danger, and death.

No way they should take the blame for what he’d become. And if anyone were to blame it would be this fucked up society we lived in —- the government at both the federal and local level —- corporate America —- The Man. At least that’s how Flash viewed it. The bleak ghetto environment he was confined to as a child made it more acceptable for him to be influenced by the local thugs, pushers and addicts. And after more than ten years in the life, the crafty veteran had mastered the drug sector to the point where he could package the game up in a comprehensive format and resell it an 8-week learning course. But despite all his knowledge and craftiness, Flash couldn’t shake the unavoidable cons that came with being a big time drug dealer.

“Fuck is going on?” Flash moved from the chair to the bed, and dropped his head in frustration, assuming a position similar to the one he’d been in for the last 30 minutes.

The room was as elegant as they come —- for a cheap motel that is. The nightly rate was an astounding fee of just twenty five dollars. Jack, the owner of the establishment, called it the V.I.P. Suite —- a living quarters fit for the king who demanded the finest in motel accommodations. A semi-clean leather sofa, black and white TV, and queen-sized bed occupied the small space. That was it.

Not necessarily Flash’s style, but it would have to do. He was on the run from the streets. The last place the enemy would expect to find a baller of his character was a rundown motel in the worst area of Las Vegas. At least he hoped.

Accompanying Flash on the quilted covers of the bed was the nine millimeter Beretta, the troubled piece that like so many other components, played a significant part in the current shit he found himself in. The number of lives the weapon claimed had become outrageous, to be frank. So many scalding bullets had traveled the barrel, so many rounds the piece could bear no more.

Maybe all the activity was the reason for the gun’s malfunction. Following the initial shot, it seized, leaving Flash standing with an expression of bewilder and unadulterated fright. The gun’s disposal was now mandatory. A glitch like that could get him killed out here. Not to mention the legal aspect and all those bodies metaphyscially attached to it. Shit could get him a lot of years in there.

Read Chapter 1 of Mr. Bill Collector in Full.

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